css:focus

css:focus

mary

mary

Mary woke clutching at pieces of a shattered dream. She heard the rumble of a passing train outside. Veins of frost grew at her window, framing a naked tree. It was 7:15 a.m. She stretched, got out of bed, and padded to the kitchen to make coffee wearing nothing but an old Buckeyes sweatshirt and faded black underwear. The apartment was ice cold. Her breath steamed in the grey winter light and her bare legs shivered as she scooped out the coffee. A lone cigarette peeked at her from the battered pack on the table.

"Damn." Grandpa would have to be woken up. He would have to watch the kids and make breakfast while she went to the corner store. Just what she didn't need on a Monday morning. She closed her eyes, listening to the coffeemaker purr and catching at the edges of her dream corpse, something about winning the lottery and being young and pretty again and having clothes without holes.

The old man lived and slept on a lumpy couch in a little back room of fading green paint. He was snoring like a madman. She kicked through piles of dirty clothes and empty Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. "Wake up, Daddy." She shook him roughly. "Daddy, wake up!"

"Mary. What the hell?" The orange wool blanket heaved as his thin angular body unfolded itself. His bony elbows and knees poked out, then his stubbly head: a gaunt white-haired spider in boxer shorts smelling of stale beer.

"Shit, girl." He yawned. "It's cold in here."
"They turned off the gas again yesterday. I couldn't pay the bill."
He looked at her with red eyes. "Shit, girl," he said again. "I was having the nicest dream."

~ 288 words by Craig Snyder

store

the corner store

Her coat had a broken zipper but she kept it anyway. Four winters it had lasted. It was black vinyl and Mary liked the look of it. Sleek. Shiny. The wind whipped at her hair as she hurried down broken sidewalk slabs with dead clumps of grass sticking out of the cracks to the corner store with its single 60-watt bulb burning yellow over the door.

The neighborhood was ugly and isolated and no one really loved it anymore. Located far south of downtown near the railroad yards, the unkept houses squatted on small uncut lawns strewn with stray windblown trash, dog shit, rusting engine blocks, dead cars.

Near the overpass the E-Z Sleep Motel loomed, black-eyed windows staring back at her, home of transients and cheap hookers. Someone had died there last week: an old woman with no place to go. An overdose of pills and alcohol. Mary had seen the ambulance leaving, silent, with red flashing lights.

Her lips tingled as the bitter air freeze-dried them. She put her hand in her pocket, making sure she had the money, ducking quickly through the door and right up to the counter where Ray sat drinking his coffee and listening to his country music station.
"A pack of American Gold Lights, please."
"Cigarette tax went up. It's $2.95 now," said Ray.
"Damn." Mary bit her lip. "Ray..."
"It's okay, Mary. Just give me what you got. You can pay me the rest when you get off work." Ray was her uncle. Born in the hills of Tennessee.

She clutched the pack tightly on the way home but stopped halfway to tear off the cellophane and light one up. Streaming smoke rushed past her hot face and disappeared into the sky. She thought if she was careful she could make the pack last three days. Careless, she stubbed her foot on something and nearly fell. Looking down she saw the head of a Barbie doll with it's hair all burned off. She had 20 minutes to dress and catch the bus to work.

~ 342 words by Craig Snyder

breakfast

breakfast

Three sleepy faces stare across the table at Grandpa. Beautiful tangled hair. Large dark eyes. Some smudges on the skin not washed off the night before.

"I'm cold," declares Missy. "I'm cold like an icicle." She is 7 and in second grade. She wears pink sweats, too small, that crawl up her legs. Her feet are slightly blue. Her favorite show is Powerpuff Girls.

"Don't bother me," says Grandpa. His head is still buzzing from cheap beer. His hands shake as he pours unbrand Cheerios into plastic bowls.

The twins, Shane and Andy, stare and slobber and bang their spoons on their trays. They are 18 months old and in love with Grandpa. He is the biggest thing they have ever seen. They stay with Ray's wife Josy during the day. She is on disability from a bad back. One day they brought home head lice and gave it to Grandpa. They got it from one of the other children Josy took care of. He has not yet forgiven them for that, but he will, eventually.

"Gampa, Gampa!" Huge smile and Shane bangs the tray just as Grandpa pours the milk on the cereal. Cheerios and milk slop on the floor.
"Godammit!!" yells Grandpa. "Who's going to clean that up, I wonder?"
Shane's mouth trembles. He doesn't like it when Grandpa gets mad.
"I will, Grandpa," says Missy. She gets some McDonald's napkins from a pile on the counter and kneels on the floor, wiping at the mess.
"Good girl," says Grandpa. He slumps in a chair as the back door bangs open.

~ 263 words by Craig Snyder

bus

on the bus

"You kids be good today." Mary glanced at her watch and drained the last drop of coffee out of her cup.

"We will!" they screamed. Missy flung herself at Mary. She wrapped her arms and legs around her and squeezed like an octopus. She studied the makeup Mary had applied hastily in front of the fogged mirror with the crack in it. "You look beautiful," she said.

"You always say that," said Mary.

Missy stepped back and twirled around on bare feet. Early sun made her rust-red hair glow. "I know," she said. "Wow it's cold in here!" She flapped her arms like a bird and danced away.

"Oh God," said Mary. She dug through her purse. No bus pass. She ran into the bedroom and couldn't find it. The bathroom maybe? Yes! There it was on the sink trapped under a bottle of Suave hair spray. She grabbed it and bolted for the door. She thought she heard the the bus as it turned the corner. A sound like a monster clearing its throat.

Mary ran.

Her legs felt like cold steel. I am a robot, she thought as the bus stop came into view. I do the same thing every day. I will be doing the same thing every day until the day I die, only then I'll be old and ugly and no one will care what happens to me. I wish I had batteries I could just take out whenever I wanted to. I wish I could just stop.

The deep whine of a diesel engine as the bus came into view.

She took a last puff of her cigarette and flicked it towards the bus. It rolled into the street and was crushed by a giant tire as the bus ground to a stop and the door opened with a pneumatic gasp.

Mary got on. She ran her bus pass through the slot and heard the beep that told her it was ok, she'd passed the test. She walked down the aisle, shoulders hunched, darting glances left and right, wanting to sit alone and think. Suddenly she was happy because the back seat was empty and she could sit over the throbbing engine and just drift for the 15 precious minutes it took to get downtown.

Ok maybe it's my lucky day she thought.

~ 390 words by Craig Snyder

Microdot II

This is an experimental page adapted from Stu Nicholl's :Focus Demo So far as I know, it's the first time something like this has been used to showcase Micro Fiction. This version is beta, with a few kinks to work out.

Instructions: Clicking the links in the top boxes will reveal the text. Clicking outside the main box will hide it. You should be able to use the scrollbar while the text is revealed. The Opera browser will not allow the text to remain visible after the mouse is released. Best viewed in Firefox. From here you can Return to the Micro Fiction page or Go To the index page of this site.